Messiah
by StarXEnoch
Summary: A complex retelling of the life of Jesus Christ using biblical steampunk. See bio for full details.
1. Waiting for the Call

Chapter One: Waiting for the Call

The moon shone hazily over the holy land of Yisrael. Every one of God's chosen people was sound asleep in his or her bed…save one. Thirty-year-old Yeshua sat in his wood shed at his carpentry bench with two uneven blocks of wood in his hand. He stared at them with all the intensity that the not-yet-Anointed One had within him. He knew he wanted to craft something. The tools laid before him could be put to great use. The bits of broken metal and shattered wood that littered the floor could be redeemed. Yeshua was starving to be given the blueprints for the divine building assignment, and was being driven into near madness that he hadn't received it yet.

"Why haven't you called on me to begin yet!" he called out loud.

There was no physical voice to answer him. But Yeshua knew that his Father was Spirit, and therefore didn't use one. Focusing inward, he felt the all too familiar force within him attempt to sooth him, telling him to wait just a little while longer.

_But I want to build something now! _Yeshua insisted. The divine spirit within remained ever calm, telling him that he would be wise to go back to sleep. And Yeshua kept fighting back, begging to be put to good use. This went on for quite some time until he felt a physical presence enter the shed. He looked up to see the dark silhouette of his aging but still beautiful mother.

Miriam was fourteen when she gave birth to her blessed son. Now he was thirty-three and she was forty-seven. Wisps of gray streaked her beautiful black Hebrew hair. Her eyes showed love and concern. She walked lightly to Yeshua and cupped her hand on his shoulder.

_"Hakatan sheli," _she whispered softly, which means, "My little one."

_"Imah," _he spoke back, which means, "Mommy."

Miryam was well aware of the storm within her son. Though he was the advocate for peace and love, he was also a bringer of rage when need be. She was not afraid of Yeshua, but chose her words carefully lest she needlessly kindle the divine pool of fire within him.

"It's three in the morning." He didn't move. "Your brothers and sister are asleep."

He moved the pieces of wood in his hands up and down. "I'm…..building something." His voice was shaky and frustrated, for it was the voice of a man who exhausted but couldn't sleep.

Miryam felt a surge of empathy towards this man she called son but couldn't help. It was an all too familiar emotion. She had done her greatest deed the night she gave birth to him all those years ago. With her late husband. In that cave full of animals. But Yeshua had the greatest of destinies awaiting him. A destiny she couldn't even fathom. But Yeshua could do nothing but sit and wait until he was called to begin. Such waiting became worse and worse with each year. Whatever anticipation she felt now towards her son's mysterious future, it was nothing compared to the swirling tempest within him that was dying to go about his Father's business.

She helped Yeshua to his feet and put one of his arms over his shoulders. Wordlessly they walked out of the woodshed to their humble dwelling: A one-story house made of wood and clay. In the moonlight Yeshua's facial features became visible. Even with a full beard his gentle chiseled features were apparent. He had a slender muscular figure that only came about though many a hard day's labor. His black eyes were set ablaze with a billion mysteries only he would ever know.

"Why doesn't He call on me yet?" he asked his _Imah, _as if she knew.

"In His own timing."

"And what am I supposed to do until then?"

Miryam gave the best answer she could give. "Let it be."

They didn't speak to each other again for the rest of the night. Miryam led Yeshua to his bedroom and helped him lay into bed. She kissed him on his forehead and left the room. Yeshua was once again alone. For a moment he considered getting up again and going back to the shed, but he was well aware of his Father's commandment to honor one's earthly parents. And he felt more comfortable in bed anyway.

He was exhausted, yet he could not drift off into the land of dreams. Such was often the case. Still wide-awake, his mind wandered from one thing to another. He thought of Paradise, the eternal reward of the righteous. He thought of the Torah, the complex law system given to his people. He thought of his living mother, dead earthly father, brothers, sisters, and friends-all of which knew he was special but hardly had any idea. He thought of the covenants that Lord Adoni made with Adam, Noah, Avraham, Tishaq, Moshe, and soon himself.

No, there was no way that the Son of God would be getting any sleep tonight. He tossed and turned in vain. All the while he was aware of the Spirit moving within him and around him. Once again he asked out loud, "Why don't you call on me yet!"

And once again, God kept His mysteries to Himself.


	2. The Circle of Zealots

Chapter Two: The Circle of Zealots

Despite misconception, being a Roman centurion was not an easy life. Sure, the promise of glory and conquest was exciting, but there was much more work that was much more dangerous. It never took too terribly long to conquer a nation, but after the wars the real struggle began: Occupation. A centurion stationed in a Roman-occupied country had two orders: Keep the peace and collect taxes.

The two ill-fated centurions together in one squad car, a bulky ground vehicle built entirely of iron. From the doors to the hood to the tires to the spinners, everything was painted deep purple except two things. The first was the Latin phrase _Roma invicta_, which was posted in golden letters on each side of the car. The second was the complex trumpet system on the roof that, when the right lever was pulled from the driver's side, would emit typical Roman fanfare loud enough to hear for miles around. This elaborate vehicle was just one of thousands owned by Romans stationed all over Yisrael.

These two centurions were unfortunate enough to work the night shift, a time when all manner of zealots found ways to cause terror. They rode in silence along the outskirts of the village Natzeret, keeping a close eye out for suspicious movement. It was a dangerous area. Nothing good came out of Natzeret. If they ran into serious trouble, it would take backup at least half an hour to arrive.

The one at the wheel felt the need to break the break the eerie silence. "So, how's your wife?" he asked in Latin.

"Haven't seen her in two years," the one on the passenger side said. "She's safe back on the motherland. Wouldn't dare bring her to a wasteland like this."

The driver forced an unnecessary chuckle. "I completely understand. Hard to believe they call this the Holy Land. If my god told me that this was the land my people were to live in, I'd find a new god to worship!"

He hoped the passenger would reply somehow, but he didn't. The passenger was looking out his window, keeping a keen eye out for any any Jew up and about at this ungodly hour.

The driver went on. "But sometimes, it's a good thing not have your wife around, with her nose in your business. Gives you the chance enjoy other women." He gave another forced chuckle. "I'm been to Gaul and Brittany, and many ladies there were more than willing to have a romp with a Roman stud."

The passenger kept his face to the window. His tone betrayed the load of heavy foreboding that weighed him down. "Jewish women are fanatically religious. They never go willingly."

"Since when are we afraid to take something by force?"

"And they're never alone either. They always have a husband or a brother or a father nearby. And a fight with one Jewish man quickly turn a fight with twelve." He gave a miserable sigh. "I hate it here."

No sooner had he said this than a threatening sight came into their immediate vision. Up ahead a few feet on the driver's side on the road stood a crumbling wall. In ages past it had probably been part of a watchtower for long forgotten farmer's field. Now it stood about six feet tall and ten feet long. Its crumbling stones shimmered gold in the moonlight. But the two centurions' attention was not on the wall, but the Jew who stood before it.

The Jew had his back to the Romans, so all they could see was his knotted black hair that rolled halfway down his back. He wore a torn A-shirt with _Remember Masada_ scribbled on it in black Greek. This alone was enough to identify him as a zealot. He held a shinny silver object in his hand, which the centurions quickly identified as a spray can. With artistic precision he sprayed ornately Hebrew letters onto the wall.

_Go Home Rome! Zealots Unite!_

Even though the centurions could not read Hebrew, they knew he was a troublemaker. Both jumped out of the squad car and hustled toward him, pulling the handgun from his holsters.

The one who had been driving called, "What's wrong with you! Are you dying to go to Golgotha?"

The other one shouted, "Drop the can and put both hands in the air."

Even though the Hebrew the Romans spoke was incredibly crude, their message was clear. The Jew gave in easier than expected. He dropped the can and raised both of his hands.

"Now turn around slowly!"

Surprisingly, the Jew complied without any resistance. With his front now visible, they saw that he was not unlike most zealots. He had a patch over his left socket that probably didn't have an eye in it. His face was dirty, unshaven, and bruised. All over his body was a wide assortment of barely healed wounds. With his one eye he looked at the Romans with the calm cool manor of one who had done this sort of thing many times before. The Centurions wondered why such a man would allow himself to be captured without a fight. All too late they realized that he wasn't the aggressor, but the decoy.

Without warning six more zealots ran out from behind the wall; each one just as nasty and bloody as the first. And they were not unarmed. In each rebel's hands was an automatic firearm. In a flash they had formed a circle around the two Centurions, who knew that there was no way to fight such well armed rebels, and certainly no way to escape. Their handguns were crudely built from bronze ores, designed for intimidation more than anything else.

The one unarmed zealot picked his spray can back up, did a backflip, and landed on top of the wall. _"Roma invicta _indeed!" he laughed.

The centurions turned around and around, looking for a weak point in the circle that they might be able break though. With the zealot circle constantly shifting to match their movements, there was none to be found. When the zealot on the wall gave a shrill cackle they looked up at him, and realized even though this was the first time they had seen him in person they knew his full name.

"_Yeshua Bar-Abba," _they both mouthed.

"Most feared revolutionary in all of Judea," he smirked in rough Latin. "Most wanted by the Caesar." He gave a crooked smile and cocked his head to the side. "Do our guns meet the Caesar's approval?"

The centurions took a closer look at the guns pointed strait at them, and realized with horror each one was the same brand: The Roman Empire 42, or RE 42 for short. The RE 42 was a well renowned weapon. As the name implied, it was only built in Rome, and was reserved for Roman soldiers. Due to the large expense for manufacturing and repairing, the Caesar had ordered it only to be used in times of war. It was clear that the zealots thought highly of their enemy's prized weapons; each RE 42 was so well polished that its purple paint glowed with burning malice.

"How in Hades did you get those!" both centurions shouted simultaneously.

But they never got an answer. Yeshua Bar-Abba gave the signal and each zealot fired away. The centurions were dead within the second, but the impact of the bullets kept their corpses shaking in the air until the zealots were ordered ceasefire.

Bar-Abba jumped down from the wall and scanned the collage of purple that lay in the zealot circle. Among the ruined purple uniforms, purple shells, and what almost seemed like purple blood, he saw the beginnings of his beautiful revolution.

"Romans are tall and strong. They have resources and technology unknown to us. They are aliens to this land, and they enjoy dominance over those they think weak. But they _will _be driven out."

As his zealots piled the bodies into the trunk of the squad car Yeshua Bar-Abba proclaimed his supposedly divine message. "We will win this war through chaos! For all their claims at fearlessness the Romans place too much value on order. They rely on techniques, tactics, formations and ranks!"

He spat on the ground.

"We will win this war though chaos. Terrorization! Fear tactics! The Holy One has blessed us with victory tonight, just as He has before, just as He will continue to do! The Romans stationed here know not where we will strike next. We will continue to randomly attack them all over Yisrael. Our people will see us as saviors and flock to our cause. Our numbers will lesson and theirs will decrease."

Bar-Abba's speech was cut short by a zealot twenty years of age. His hair was cut short and his face somewhat shaven. Like his leader, he had a patch over his right socket, though his body was not nearly as cut up.

"Pardon the intrusion Yeshua, but I have recently heard of a man who claims to have personal knowledge of the Messiah."

Yisrael was in no shortage of people claiming to be divinely anointed to lead the Chosen People to prosperity, and Yeshua Bar-Abba was interested in each and every one of them. He wanted nothing less than a full on war with Rome, and as far as he was concerned, a warrior from God would bring about just that.

"Tell me more, Shim'on," Bar-Abba said.

"I have not seen him myself, but I have heard that he immerses people in the River Descender for purification. He says the Messiah will come in our lifetime, and that we must prepare ourselves for him."

"But you have not heard this man speak yourself?" Bar-Abba asked, stroking his beard. "Go and listen to him. Learn all you can and report back to me."

"Yes sir," Shim'on said.

With the bodies of the centurions in the trunk, the zealots piled in the backseat. Bar-Abba drove two miles up the road where there was a crossroads. Here, three different roads met. He parked the car in the dead center of the crossroads, and then had the Roman corpses laid on the roof. Once again using his can of spray paint, he wrote over the motto _Roma invicta _with five words.

_Don't Screw with the Jews!_


	3. The Voice in the Wilderness

Chapter Three: The Voice in the Wilderness

Yochanan had the greatest of responsibilities placed upon him. He stood there, up to his knees in the River Descender, which the multitudes staring wide-eyed at him. They heeded his words, despite his appearance. His rugged body was clad in rags made from camelhair held together by a leather belt. His black locks and matted beard twisted into each other and flowed down his body as one. Yochanan stank to high heavens, a fact which those who were emerged by him knew all too well. The flies and mosquitoes swarmed around his head in an unparalleled frenzy. But the wilderness had been Yochanan's home for quite a long time, so this was unavoidable. And besides, when you had a higher calling like he had, little things like hygiene were the first to go.

"There is a prophecy written in the Book of Yeshaaya," his rough projected. Despite his tone, he was not furious, only passionate. "It reads: 'a voice is crying out in the wilderness, prepare the way of the Lord, make straight paths for Him. Each valley shall be filled in, every mountain and hill made low; the crooked roads will become straight, the rough ways smooth. All people will see God's salvation.'

This was who Yochanan was. He was the voice in the wilderness, chosen to prepare the way for the Lord. Yisrael was overflowing with failed radicals and false messiahs. This made the job of the one true Messiah all the more difficult. Yochanan had been chosen to ease the burden a little bit. Yochanan worked hard to make the path of Lord as straight as he could make it.

One by one, people left the band of the Descender and met Yochanan in the center. There, the confessed their sins to him. Yochanan heard of peoples' greed, pride, lusts, cheatings, and even murders. Yet he judged them not, for he himself was not without sin. After one confided in him all their sins he told them, "Prove your _metanoia _by the fruit that it bears."

_Metanoia. _Such a beautiful, yet misunderstood word. It would be the center point of the Messiah's message. In the Greek it translated to _repentance. _Yet unlike the common conception of repentance, _metanoia _didn't refer to the change of physical actions, but the change of a mind set. A person who underwent _metanoia _didn't just turn away from their sins, but thought differently about them. The things that looked beautiful in the past were now discovered to be vile. The aftermath of _metanoia _was a complete lifestyle change. This was what Yochanan referred to when he said, "Prove your _metanoia _by the fruit that it bears."

Yochanan was a performer of a sacred ritual steeped in Jewish tradition. It had come to symbolize many things over the centuries, but to Yochanan and his flock it had only one meaning: Public testimony of one's _metanoia. _This was the ancient rite of full immersion into water. Yochanan did this to everyone who would confess his or her sins to him. Be they child, man, or woman, Yochanan would dip them backwards until they were fully within the Descender. Then he would bring them back up again for them to rejoin their brothers and sisters on the bank as a transformed, and dripping wet, person. It took courage to go meet Yochanan in the middle of the river to be dunked in, but that was the point. Immersion was not meant for the lukewarm believer.

In between preforming immersions Yochanan would make sermons out of the questions people asked him. The crowd asked him, "What should we do?"

He answered, "Anyone who has two shirts should share with someone who has none, and anyone who has food should do the same."

Even the tax collectors came to be immersed. "Rabbi," they asked, "what should we do?"

"Don't collect any more than you have to," he told them.

When the soldiers asked him the same question he said, "Don't take money unfairly and don't accuse people falsely-be content with your pay."

There were even some of the religious authorities coming to him. When Yochanan saw the Pharisees and the Sadducees standing on the edge of the banks, he scowled. "You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the coming wrath? Produce fruit in keeping with _metanoia. _And do not think you can say to yourselves, 'We have Abraham as our father.' I tell you that God can children for Abraham out of these stones here."

Yochanan was going out o a limb here, and he knew it. People who insulted the high leaders in public rarely got away with it. Like his cousin, Yochanan was not destined for a life of safety. He was chosen to call all kinds of people out, regardless of whether or not it would end well for him.

"Already the ax is being laid at the roots of the tree, and every tree that fails to produce good fruit will be cut down and thrown into the fire!"

At his words some of the Pharisees and Sadducees stormed off in furry, while others took the rebuking with humility and proceeded to be immersed. Yochanan welcomed them, just as he had welcomed everyone else. And as to be expected, some suspected that Yochanan himself might be the Messiah. He was sure to give strict correction to them.

"I immerse you in water for _metanoia, _but he who comes after me is mightier than I. I am not even fit take off his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and with fire! His winnowing fork is in his hand to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his barn, but he will burn up the chaff with unquenchable fire!"


End file.
